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Sometimes, in his most selfish moments, Jess wished it had all never happened.
It never lasted more than a moment before he remembered all the amazing people he’d met (Thomas, Glain, Dario, Khalila, Wolfe, Santi…) and how the world was free. Free to express their thoughts without the constant surveillance of the Library. Without being arrested and dragged away without a trace left to remember their names.
But he was weak, and selfish.
The fire had left his lungs scarred beyond repair. He lived, but he couldn’t run like he used to. Didn’t have the comfort of his athletic ability as a quick escape. Couldn’t climb two flights of stairs before beginning to feel out of breath. Four, on a particularly good day. Smoke made it difficult to breathe. Too much dust or dirt made him cough painfully. He kept his mask on him at all times.
He missed Morgan, who died for the sake of the library. Maybe their romantic feelings had faded, but he still loved her all the same.
But, he reminded himself, she would’ve spent the rest of her life hiding. Running, reaching for freedom she could never get.
But he could still see the guilt in Khalila’s eyes when she was mentioned. In all of their eyes.
And Brennan. Jess missed his brother, who he knew didn’t care as passionately about the Library as he and his friends did. Who fought mostly for Jess, then Neska.
He was his twin. Though different, they were forever connected by a delicate string. They weren’t alone. There was someone, even if there was no one. Even if it was hard or the connection was taut with suspicious and resent.
And then it snapped. The balance upsurped.
And Jess was, in a way he had never been before, truly alone.
Some days he looked and the mirror and saw a ghost. He kept his hair in a military-style cut.
After the moment passed, sometimes he got up and opened a book. Not a blank, a real, living book, and breathed it in. Felt the weight of history and knowledge. Felt the pride in Wolfe, Thomas, and even himself. He was apart of this.
Sometimes he went up and went to a friend, or wrote to them in his Codex. Anit, when he wanted a distraction, talking about the store. Wolfe and Santi, for comfort and advice. Dario and Khalila, when he wanted to loosen up and maybe even laugh. Thomas, when he wanted quieter company.
Sometimes he went out to the graves, memorials, whatever was left, and let himself remember the good and the bad. Let himself weigh it all.
And, quite surprisingly, sometimes he wrote to his mother. He’d never really spoken to her before, but after she stood up for him, he had been trying to make an effort. It was oddly healing to learn about this woman who knew his whole life, but, really, he’d never known at all.
In the end, he’d close his eyes and would wish for a kind future. One that he had helped make. One that his friends were still actively shaping. One that felt like it was practically here.
It was messy, but it was his.